


Tumblr Fills

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Ficlets, Tumblr fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A variety of Petyr/Sansa prompt fills from my tumblr. Ratings vary, so I used the M as sort of a general one. More detail can be found on each fic (one chapter=one fic).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Elation of Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _How about some good old fashioned Petyr/Sansa, "cruelty has a nobler ring."_

“I wouldn’t fret too much over him, sweetling” Petyr tells her, pouring more wine into her still full goblet. He’s drunk more than usual, and so has she, but then again they are celebrating. “He would have had your pretty head, had you not put a stop to it. You should not feel guilty over self-preservation."  
As he pulls back the bottle some of the wine misses the goblet and runs down her fingers. Before Sansa can react he takes her hand in his and licks the trails of wine away before they stain the skin. There’s something animalistic in the act and she shivers, despite the warmth of the wine and the room. He watches her all the while, eyes cloudy but still clever.

“I’m not fretting,” she says, and she means it. There’s a hollow space inside where she knows she would have felt guilt years ago; all she feels now is the elation of survival.  
Petyr threads his fingers through hers and looks her over, his face passive. After a few moments he smiles crookedly, cruelly, and she feels nothing but pride for her actions, for having pleased him so.

She looks down at her hand, pale and smooth, all traces of the wine gone. It’s lovely, with a slim gold bracelet draped over her wrist, elegant the way she always thought a Queen should be.

“You’re fantastic,” he whispers, so low that she’s not sure he knew he was speaking. There’s a quality of awe in his voice, of pleasure and of pride.

Sansa favors him with a smile, cutting against her porcelain cheek. She thinks of the way her heart thudded in her chest when she poured the poison in the old man’s cup, pounding not out of fear but out of excitement. Afterwards, when he had been taken to bed she had leaned in and whispered into his ear all the plans she had for his lands, for her reclaimed North. She had watched his red-rimmed eyes go wide, had listened to him stumble over some words, had watched the life go out of him, her face calm and ladylike all the while.

After he was dead, before Petyr had sent for her and the wine, she had looked herself over in the mirror. Her face had a sense of nobility about it that she had not really realized before, the product of years at court. Sharp, cutting and stately, she couldn’t help but feel her new skills set had to do with that.

She lets Petyr kiss her then, her fingers biting into his palm, enjoying his sharp intake of breath at the pain.


	2. After Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promp: _could you do an AU Petyr/Sansa, English Teacher/Student? (like an after school "I'd like to talk about your essay then BAM!)_ Mature.

She’s a good student, so when he first began to ask her to see him in his office on evenings after class (she had made the freshmen mistake of scheduling all her classes in the mornings, but now she didn't mind so much) she had immediately started to guess at his true motivation.

"I think it would be best if I took a vested interest in your work," he told her the first night, his office smelling of books and coffee and autumn. She had thought back to the way his eyes always lingered on her during lectures, the way he would follow her hands as she smoothed the wool of her pencil skirt, and gave him a small smile.

The rewards for her good work were gratifying, but secretly she came to love the punishments and reprimands more. Just the memory of the feel of his hand on her bare flesh, stinging, was enough to get her wet. He could never quite bring himself to resist sliding his fingers between her legs after he was done and chastising her as he brought her off; it was a memory she held onto for dark nights alone.

She had always been a good student, though she found herself smiling now when she turned in poor work. It always came back to her with a note: _Unacceptable. After class._


	3. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Petyr/Sansa at a masquerade_. Somewhat mature.

She’s more than a little breathless, the wine and laughter having gone to her head, but she brushes off any of the offers of help from her hopeless suitors; she would rather gather her thoughts alone. 

She can still hear the merriment, of course, but only in the distance and the soft, cool breeze that flows down this empty corridor is delicious. Her dress is silk—green and ivory, not the colors of the House of Arryn, but beautiful—and she’s more than happy that she choose that instead of the heavy velvets that line her wardrobe. Even the cold of the Eyrie cannot pierce the warmth of the ballroom on this early spring night. 

That ballroom is packed, alive in a way Sansa had never seen before. But there’s much to celebrate—the end of the winter, the peace, her coming out of her mourning period.  
She pushes the gold mask back, careful not to lose any of the feathers, and is just about to find a mirror so she could check her mussed hair when she realizes she is not alone.

He’s still wearing his mask, though it’s obvious to her who it is. He’s standing at the railing, looking down into the near-empty foyer below. She takes another breath before moving swiftly towards him; he would expect it of her. “Hello Lord Baelish.”

He smiles, though there is something sad about it, just as there is every time she uses that title. To appease him a bit she leans in to kiss him on the cheek, just under his black mask. She’s not at all surprised when he takes her wrist and pulls her in to claim her mouth. He never misses an opportunity. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks. He still has a hold on her wrist. She doesn’t shake it off.

“The same as you. Getting away.” He leans against the railing and studies her carefully. “You should be enjoying your party, and yet here you are.”

“I just needed a moment.” She keeps her voice low, conscious of how it echoes in the Eyrie. She’s not saying anything incriminating, but the way he’s looking at her makes her cheeks burn and it’s best not to draw attention.

“Oh sweetling,” he whispers, and runs the back of his hand down her face. He drops his hand to caress her collarbone and the tops of her breasts, the reddened flesh peaking into goosebumps under his touch. Perhaps she could blame the blush on the heat and press of the ballroom.

“Have I done well?” Sansa finds herself asking. It’s curious, she never feels the need to get approval from any other than him. 

Petyr laughs and moves both hands up to her hair, sliding her mask back down. “It’s best to remain incognito, don’t you think?” He kisses her deep, a hand reaching up to cup a breast. She’s pushed back against the railing, the hardness of his body in front and the stone at her back pinning her. She no longer cares if she’s blushing.

As the kiss breaks she laces her fingers through his and draws him away. Up the stairs to somewhere private, where he will make short work of all her finery. 

She doesn’t return to the ballroom that night. She tells herself that the sounds of her panting and moans are not audible over the crowd, that no one can hear the shutters and sighs she makes when he fills her so deliciously. And even if they could hear, she doubts they ever would have guessed who’s back it is she marks with her nails, who’s voice whispers filthy thoughts in her ear as she takes him in deeper, who’s mask lays forgotten with her own.


	4. Sweet and Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve, 1921 AU.

“Was this made in some bathtub?” she asks, raising an already arched brow. She takes the flute from his hand anyway, only hesitating for a split second. Petyr is quick to notice the small quirk of a smile on her red stained lips, a break in her normally porcelain demeanor. He should mention it to her, but the effect is simply too sweet.  
“If I wanted you to drink bathtub gin I wouldn’t have dragged you in here, would I?” He goes to his desk and procures the bottle, holding it up for her to examine.

“This was smuggled?” It’s not really a question, merely something blurted out in surprise. It’s 1921—for a few minutes more at least—and those avenues have almost all dried up.

For those without resources at least.

“You should know by now that if anyone can…” he lets the words trail off and she nods, her lips stretching into a true smile. It’s been almost a year since she became his partner (in crime, she liked to add sometimes, laughing and blushing as if that mitigated the truth of the statement). Petyr wasn’t accustomed to having someone so close to him and yet so strangely guarded; her real smiles (which, if he thought about it for long, were harder and harder to notice these days) still catch him off guard. Rarer and more precious than purloined champagne, certainly.

“There’s not enough to go around. I think it’s best that we finish it off in here, less the crowd get jealous.”

Sansa laughs, still charming and practiced. He thinks it will take a few glasses for the truly unguarded girl to come out, but best not to rush these things.

“Shall we toast before the bell?” she asks. She’s closes the distance between them. She’s nearly the same height as him, especially in her heels. Not that he would have her any other way. She’s a sight—silver spangled dress, heavy eye make-up, neatly bobbed hair. Everything about her cutting-edge, everything about her cutting.  
He raises his glass to meet hers, “Here’s to a profitable year.”

“To us,” she adds, and something like real surprise fits across her face for a second, as if she said something that did not match the careful script in her head. He should be angry at her for forgetting his lessons, for not controlling herself better, for letting something so obviously real and potentially harmful slip through without even the excuse of drunkenness.

He isn’t. And he doesn’t wait for the clock to ring or even the champagne to pass her lips to kiss her.


	5. In the Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Petyr/Sansa, stuck in an elevator_. _Mad Men_ /1960s AU. Explicit.

She watches him loosen his skinny tie—the heat of the closed space was clearly affecting him just as it affected her, though if Sansa were being truthful the flashes of heat she felt had nothing to do with the actual temperature. 

She’d seen him so undone before, of course. By now their lessons and their games had become commonplace, though nothing they spoke about outside of his office. It was strange, as if that space had any real power, but she knew Petyr expected her to remain silent about all that once she crossed back into the working world and she knew that the fact that she maintained her end, held her tongue, was what earned her his respect.

She didn’t like to think too hard about just how needy she had been for that.

They were behind doors now—different doors, unpredictable doors—and to see him loose in such a setting was a bit unnerving but more than a little exciting, the way their earliest encounters were exciting, when she still felt the fear of discovery, before she realized he was smarter than that ( _she hoped_ ).

“They have to hear us,” she says, her voice sounding too loud in this trapped space. The light is gone, but she can make out every line of his face clearly. She sees it when she closes her eyes at night, painfully alone in bed (she sometimes lets herself picture a normal relationship, one not built on this give and take; she can’t really fathom what that would mean).

“Do they?” he’s cocking an eyebrow at her now, the white of his smile cutting through the dark. He’s studying her, and not for the last time she wonders how she measures up. “Everything’s gone quite. Who knows what’s happened?”

She should be scared at such a statement. Should be frightened at being trapped with this man who knows so much and yet so little about her, who holds her so close and holds his own motives closer.

But if Sansa’s learned anything in these past few months, it is that there is a certain thrill in being frightened.

When he reaches out to touch her it is like an eclectic jolt. Yes, she thinks, as though the realization were something new. _This is what power feels like._

He holds the cards, he deals out the lessons, but when he grips her and pulls her tight and she feels that spark of need radiating out of him she knows that her grip on him is just as strong.

“Perhaps we should test if they can hear us?” she hears the smirk in his voice. He doesn’t give her time to respond, but he doesn’t need to. Her back arches against him in a silent consent, and when he slips a hand between her legs it’s not a practiced sigh that leaves her lips—coquettish, the kind all the secretaries give to all their hapless suitors—but a low moan that she can’t be bothered to contain. Petyr pushes her against the hard wall, hands busy but careful, lips whispering a long list of filthy phrases (she knows he loves to make her blush, he knows she secretly loves every word). He’s slower than she would have guessed from his insistence, but they really do have no reason to rush. 

Every noise seems amplified in the dark, seems to echo, yet the surroundings seem strangely intimate. Sansa thinks, briefly (as a heel tumbles to the ground) of how many secretaries had spread their legs in this closed space. She smiles when she decides that she must be the first to know she has anything approaching control.

He kisses her sweetly afterwards and she digs her nails into him, claiming.

——

They are recused some hours later, sated and restored to their former perfection, Sansa all soft blushes and embarrassment, which she knows is what is expected of her.  
A power outage, they say. The whole city had been shut down. It seems odd, that they had shared that moment with so many people.

She walks to a friends apartment—impossible that she would take the train home, at this hour, with the crush of the liberated crowds all around—disheveled but looking far from undone. She smiles as she thinks of every mark, every stain her skirt conceals and has to catch herself from laughing in the street.


End file.
